Risk of a Lifetime (6 page)

“What can I do for you today, Ms. Bradley?”

“Two large root beers to go.” Much as she hated to do anything nice to encourage JB to stick around, she couldn’t imagine getting herself a drink and ignoring him.

“Drinking heavy, are you?” The fizz of the foam as it filled the cup sounded the same now as it had when she was ten years old. She loved this shop not only for its nostalgic red, white, and black counter and stools but for Pete himself.

“Nope.” She smiled and laid a five on the counter. “Guess you heard JB’s in town for a while.”

Noncommittal, Pete nodded.

“Well, he’s been acting like a mother hen the past few days. Today he’s chauffeuring me around.”

Pete tightened the lids on the cups and poked the striped bendy-straws in the tops. “Seems like yesterday the two of you would come in after high school. Just like clockwork, you’d go sit at the last booth in the back of the store and huddle over one root beer float for the two of you. You ever think about those days? Laughing as your foreheads bumped and—”

A roar like two jet planes crashing into each other rattled the air. The building shook. Pete’s front window shattered. Bits of glass prickled her skin. She reactively flung her arm across her face and turned away. She turned back as the rain of glass pinged onto the floor. Fluorescent orange and red flames roared into the sky from the rubble of what used to be her office. Used to be the adjoining tattoo parlor.

Pete edged up from behind the wooden counter, holding his arm where an ominous chunk of wood lodged. His wife ran from the back room to help her husband.

“You okay, Marcy?” he shouted.

She nodded, picked up the two empty cups of root beer from the floor, and shivered. Shivered again harder. Her face grew clammy. The cups fell from her hands. Numb and on auto-pilot, she stumbled toward the scene. Toward what used to be her front door.

JB’s truck did a 180 as it screeched to a stop, and he bolted for the shifting mass of destruction. The sight of him running straight toward the dust-settling pile of rubble shook her back to the moment.

“Marcy! Where are you?” He raced across the debris as if he didn’t see or hear or feel the heat while he side-stepped the spot fires. “Marcy? Marcy!”

“Nooooo, JB!” She charged after him across the shattered bricks, the shards of glass, the chunks of asphalt and concrete littering the street. “Stop. I’m here. I’m here!”

He disappeared in to the section of her office that was still standing. A moment later, a second blast rocked her world.

Chapter Six

JB barreled toward the flames. “Marcy!”

His lungs filled with the acrid smoke, choking his senses. Heat crushed his movements and singed the hair on his arms. And the few angry, lingering flames beckoned him to test his strength. Resolve pressed him forward.

Find her. Find her. Don’t stop, find her.

A secondary explosion blew on the far side of the building. He flattened to the ground, covering his head with his arms. A rain of fragments dropped down. A couple of larger chunks found him as a target. No chance. There was no chance Marcy might have survived the second bomb.

His heart broke. His agonizing shouts mixed with the hiss and crackle of the settling debris. He stumbled to retrace his steps.

Sirens screamed closer. Blue sky merged with murky heat waves. Burning coughs racked his lungs. He collapsed to his knees in the debris. Marcy was gone. Enfolding his head with his arms, he rocked back and forth.

Make this a dream. A nightmare. Please, dear God, make this a dream.

Soft hands grabbed his and pulled. Stronger hands lifted his feet, others supported his middle. Voices merged in the background for a stretcher and medic. And someone pounded the smoldering material on his legs as he was placed on the cart. Within seconds, the stretcher jerked as the paramedics slid it into the ambulance, then placed a plastic mask over his mouth and nose.

Oxygen.

“No! Leave me alone.” He shoved the lifesaving air aside again and again while his lungs fought to suck deep, racking breaths. Exhausted, he pushed against the fingers stroking his forehead. “Leave me alone.”

“It’s Marcy. JB listen to me.”

Softness against his cheek.

“I’m okay. Look at me, I’m okay.”

He pushed the mask aside. Marcy?

A kiss, then another, then another. His tongue licked the salty wetness that caressed his lips. The fog of his mind craved the feelings flooding through the break. He’d do anything if she were alive. Quit law enforcement. Move back to Crayton. Anything. Even leave her alone if that’s what she wanted.

“Look at me, JB. I’m okay.” Her voice cracked as the hand holding his trembled.

Sucking in the clean air, he fought to open his eyes. “Marcy?”

She nodded, curling her fingers through his hair. Tears flooded across her soot-covered face, joining his as she burrowed her cheek against his.

“I thought I’d lost you.” He pulled her against his chest as the ambulance doors closed behind them.

Her fingers gripped his shirt. “Me, too.”

He kissed her hair. Her forehead. His lips skimmed hers as he thumbed away the soot from her cheek. “I thought I’d lost you.”

…

JB’s few hours in the trauma unit pushed him to his exasperation limit. Talking to Marcy had tested his last iota of composure. “Yes, I heard what you’ve been saying for the past five minutes. Can we get past this?”

“Not until you tell me what I said,” she stated.

Ultimatum? She thought she’d issue an ultimatum to him. Hell. Even stone-cold killers had balked at issuing him ultimatums. He was only one turn of a key in his truck’s ignition away from leaving Crayton far behind for good. “Let it go, Marcy. I agreed with you, so let it go.”

She took a step in his direction. “So what did I say?”

Marcy seeing him in the hospital’s so-called gown didn’t sit right with him. Made him appear weak. Wrong, if that’s what she thought.

“You basically said you still can’t stand to be in the same room with me. That you had a moment of weakness when you thought I was gonna die, and that I shouldn’t get any ideas you meant anything you said or did out there.” He fought to control his tone.

“And?” Hands on her hips, she pushed to get her answer.

“Listen lady, I’m not going to stand here and repeat everything you said. Just know that line of thought goes two ways. This is just another case to me. And you are just another victim to protect.” He gritted his teeth and glared in her direction. “Now, where are my clothes?”

Dressed in a set of blue scrubs the staff had given her after she’d cleaned up, Marcy eased into the chair by the window and leafed through the same magazine she’d been looking at for the past hour. “They smelled to high heaven. Betsy’s taking Mama to the house to pick up clean ones for you.”

“Sadie had better be back soon, or I’m leaving this place the way I am.” JB kicked the sheet off the bed, tugging the gown’s hem down to mid-thigh. “Do you think there’s a law against walking out of a hospital wearing nothing but one of these?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She tossed the magazine in the chair next to her. “You’re the big, fancy FBI agent around here.”

“Ex-FBI agent.”

“That may be, but you’ll always be a lawman. Just like I’ll always be a counselor. We don’t know how to do anything else.” She sighed. “Besides, you’re damn good at what you do. The world needs people like you who risk their own lives to save the rest of us.”

JB needed to solidify his position. Make sure she didn’t get any ideas about him being her own personal hero of the moment. “I’m trained to protect people, among other things. It just happened to be you this time. Next time might be somebody heading into witness protection. All the same to me.”

Dr. Crowley walked in, carrying a file. “JB, the trauma unit says you’re tied for first place as the worst patient they’ve encountered in the past ten years.”

“What’s the prognosis? When can I get out of here?” Showered, shaved, and shampooed, JB still had the smell of soot and grime permeating his senses. Brought back memories of a drug bust explosion last year where the factory blew up right as they entered. Took forever to feel clean again.

“If you pipe down and let me recheck your wounds, I might let you leave.” The doctor poked and prodded, pressed on JB’s ribs, hips, chest, and back. “Got any blurred vision?”

“Nope.”

“Headache?”

“Nope.”

“Ringing in your ears?”

“Nope.”

Doc looked at his paperwork again, then found the right spot to retest with his fingers, hard and to the point. Raw hellfire and brimstone cranked into JB’s lower back, shooting up his spine.

“Any pain?” Doc asked.

JB’s brow furrowed, along with the powerful clench of his teeth. “Nope.”

“Would you tell me if you did?” The elderly doctor released his pressure point.

“Nope.”

Doc glanced in Marcy’s direction. “He still staying at the house?”

She nodded.

“I’m concerned about a possible concussion, but I’ll sign the release since she’s there to keep an eye on you tonight.” Doc sighed, flipping the chart closed, then he turned to JB. “And, don’t you think for one minute I believed your denial about pain in your back.”

“Wait one minute.” She sprang to her feet, hands propped on her hips. “You forget. I’m not responsible for him anymore.”

The doc raised his eyebrows and lowered his gaze on her. “Is that so?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “That’s so.”

“Marcy Marie Bradley, did you forget I’m the deacon in your church? Birthed both of you. Know most everything goes on in Crayton. And I’m not past divulging non-medical information when push comes to shove.”

“Oh, all right.” She sat in the chair again and picked up the magazine, thumbing nonchalantly through the pages. “I’ll call the ambulance if he incapacitates himself during the night. But I’m not waiting on him hand and foot. He can make his own breakfast, scrub his own back, and take care of any other bodily needs by himself.”

Took great restrain on JB’s part not to burst out laughing as doc’s face reddened. The old guy shook his head and stomped from the room, muttering something about “respect for a religious man.”

“Now where are my clothes?” JB rolled to a sitting position and dangled his legs down the side of the bed. His body hurt more than he planned to admit to anyone else. The spot doc pressed might bear watching.

A tap on the door caught their attention, and Marcy stood.

“Here’s a shirt, jeans, and a pair of socks,” Sadie said through the opening, pushing her arm into the room with the clothes. “Forgot the underwear.”

“Commando’s fine with me.” JB offered.

Marcy shot him a can’t-believe-you-said-that-to-my-mama look before she took the stack from her mother. “Thanks.”

“You need anything else?”

“No, we’re ready to head home. I really appreciate you doing this.”

The red-haired woman reached through and gave Marcy a hug. “I’m glad you’re both okay.”

“Me, too.”

“Thanks, Sadie,” JB said.

The door closed with her goodbye before Marcy brought the clothes over to the bed, laying them next to him. When he stood, the world shifted for a moment, and he steadied his leg against the mattress then ripped the hospital gown off.

She grabbed his arm, flicked her glance in a quick once over of his body, then dropped her hold. “You sure you’re okay to go home?”

Their looks met for a long, steady moment. The heat from her hand on his arm had touched more than his skin. From the flush of her cheeks, she’d felt it, too. She turned away, and he pivoted toward the bed.

“I’ve been hurt a lot worse than this. Get your stuff together, so we can get out of here.” Glancing over his shoulder, he grinned as she walked to her chair. “And, don’t worry, sugar, I can take care of my bodily—”

Damn, he’d done it again. Called her sugar. He needed to stop, even if he did like to see her fume every time he said the word.

The door banged open, and in barged Betsy.

“Do you ever knock?” Marcy asked.

If he thought turning around would get her sister out of the room sooner, he would. Instead, he stayed facing the bed then looked back over his shoulder.

Betsy let her gaze rest right where it landed. “Looking mighty good from the backside, JB.”

Too late, Marcy dashed to block her sister’s view.

“Glad I got your approval.” Naked and cold and still a little wobbly on his feet, he didn’t move.

Betsy cleared her throat. “I wanted to make sure you both were okay.”

“We’re fine. Is there anything else we can do for you?” JB squared his shoulders. “If not, then you may want to leave, because I’m gonna turn around in about three seconds.”

Marcy spun to face him, her look one of jealous indignation. “You wouldn’t dare.”

JB grinned. “One. Two.”

Betsy turned and walked out the door while Marcy followed her, blocking any chance of reentry.

“You sure everything’s okay?” Betsy asked through the barely open doorway.

“Everything’s good.” Marcy pushed the door closed inch by inch. “Thanks for taking mama to get the clothes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The door finally met the doorframe, but a second later, it reopened a couple inches. Better not be someone with a wheelchair.

“Marcy?”

“Yes, Betsy.”

“Be sure you keep an eye on those ugly bruises on JB’s side and back. They don’t look good, if you ask me.”

He glanced in Marcy’s direction as she walked back in the room. Buttoning and zipping the jeans in place, he could feel the weight of her stare. He quickly dragged the black T-shirt over his head. Winced as he stretched his arms into the sleeves. Damn that hurt.

As he eased the shirt down his body, his wife’s gaze lingered on his chest. He figured she saw the bruises. Maybe even the still red and puckered scars from his last case. He didn’t plan on talking about those any time soon. He shuffled into his boots and laced them up. The faster he got himself and Marcy out of there, the less likely she’d ask questions.

“You ready?” His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear when he stepped in front of her.

Her lips parted. Her eyes focused on his for a moment before they lowered to his shirt again.

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing. A couple of bricks hit me in that second blast.” He turned her to the door.

“What about the other—”

“Not now, Marcy. We’ll talk later.”

She let him steer her as she stared straight ahead. At one point, she swiped away a couple of tears that had the nerve to roll down her cheek. She’d always said women who cried were weak. Not always. He’d learned that emotions can do strange things to a body’s reactions. Tears were just one of many coping mechanisms.

Sometimes against pain. Sadness. Joy. Or, being glad for another breath, hour, or day. Being tortured made you realize what you had to be thankful for. Surviving made it even more apparent.

His grip tightened beneath her elbow as he guided the two of them out the door. “Let’s go home.”

Eyes unfocused on the empty air between them, she nodded.

The vicious, puckered scars across his chest would need to be explained. Along with the brand. Not today, though. And not unless he felt she could handle what he had to tell.